


kill v. maim

by gengarchan



Series: a world alone [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Floor Sex, Getting Back Together, Guns, M/M, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, i am in rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 16:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11062455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gengarchan/pseuds/gengarchan
Summary: Akaashi thinks he's sick and Kuroo thinks it's hot when he gets kicked in the throat.





	kill v. maim

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I love kuroaka and i'm very ugly. 
> 
> Please be warned there's blood and guns and some self hatred but please!!! enjoy!!!

“I’ll be in Europe for three days. Please don’t bother me,” was what Akaashi told his agency before he boarded a direct flight to Keflavík International Airport. 

 

A vacation was long overdue. This is what he muttered to himself as he pushed a needle and thread through open flesh 26 times in a filthy motel room two weeks ago. The wound healed nicely, but that wasn’t the point. 

 

He thumbs over some books organized precariously on a redwood shelf while his free hand absentmindedly traces the area of the “nicely healed” straw that broke the camel’s back. Can’t help but remember the day the collection was organized, works placed on their spines, back covers, front covers, bottom and top edges. 

 

_It gives the place some character._

_It gives_ me _anxiety._

 

The books remained in their haphazard arrangement, though. 

 

As of now, he’s been staying in this luxury cabin— built near the remote coast of the Westfjords— for exactly a day and a half. He doesn’t think he’ll be returning to headquarters anytime soon. Three days was a rough estimate, anyway. 

 

And how could anyone leave? The cabin’s indulgent waterfall shower and kingsized, goose feather gorged dream of a bed can only be rivaled by the embrace of the Northern Lights and delicate waft of sickly sweet sea. 

 

He wishes they kept him there. Wishes all he needed to ground himself was some exotic wood furnishing and cotton sea foam.

 

It would make sense to get lost in all this rather than the memories sitting on the porch, nibbling Swiss chocolate and drinking recioto della valpolicella. The nostalgia curdles at the back of his teeth and Akaashi decides he needs to shower, maybe get some April air. 

 

_Think we’ll get married here?_

_Don’t do that._

 

More or less, he drags his feet to the pale blue of the bathroom. 

 

Akaashi would be lying if he said he hasn’t been outrageously bored for the time he’s been here, makes him wonder if he’s inching closer to madness each time he finds the mental space to contemplate his idleness. 

 

It’s different, being bored. 

 

The water is hotter than it should be, paints red on his pale shoulders and it feels damn good. Maybe he can just stay here for a week or two. A month. A year. Not have to crawl back to the agency. 

 

His conditioner smells like eucalyptus and it burns his scalp. 

 

_You smell like a forest._

_Like dead bodies and dirt._

_Like something I wanna get lost in._

 

He wonders if he could just curl up with a book in front of the fireplace, cook some dinner and fall asleep on the expensive armchair with a knowing content. 

 

It doesn’t seem possible, he muses as he steps out of the glass walls, steam crowding the rest of the bathroom and rubbing at his long legs like a hungry house cat. 

 

Being bored should be a gift, especially in the line of work he was in.

 

But that’s the point, isn’t it? Akaashi can’t stand being bored, hates the fact that he doesn’t have a damn thing to do but relax.

 

The fact bites at his hips and waist, leaves stinging hickies even as he slips into an old, oversized t shirt. 

 

Vacations aren’t his thing. Were never his thing. 

 

His thing is crawling back to the agency, begging for a reason to get caught in a shootout, to find himself in a filthy motel, heart racing and blood pumping as he sews himself shut and feels more alive than he thought possible. 

 

The wound heals nicely, but that’s not the point. 

 

_It’s okay to like it._

_No, it’s not._

 

There must be something he’s missing. There must be a part of life he can’t or won’t understand that makes it feel real without air being cut from his lungs. 

 

Maybe he needs to spend more time in the Westfjords. 

 

Time— maybe that’s what he needs, Akaashi tries to convince himself as he wipes fog from the bathroom mirror. His reflection is still recognizable and he decides that it can’t be by the end of this… whatever this really was. Vacation. 

 

He wants to get sick over it. Wants acid in his throat when he touches his scar.

 

How long has he not been alone? 

 

It’s the unmistakable slide of a semi automatic from outside of the locked bathroom door that pulls him from other pondering. 

 

The way he proceeds is nothing short of graceful, mind engaging in survival tactics more natural than the bones in his body. 

 

Look for a defensive, don’t make it obvious that you know. Map your current surroundings. 

His own 9 mm is in the dresser next to the bed 12 steps east of the door, and the kitchen full of high class chef knives is more than 26 steps west. 

 

He’s always been better with closer range instruments, but the gun will always be a safer bet.

 

Once he’s got the handle of the old fashioned straight razor from the medicine cabinet pressed tightly to his palm, he approaches the door. 

 

Swallows hard, can’t help but wonder who sent whoever is waiting on the other side, but knows there’s no use in speculation. 

 

So much for vacation. 

 

Akaashi’s always been quick— he’s probably the best hand-to-hand combatant in his agency simply because he can keep up. An excellent sense of where his opponent is going and where they had come from, coupled with a sharpened wit on how to utilize this information in little to no time makes him a force to be reckoned with.

 

But the minute he opens that door—practiced and lightning fast— pulls at the wrist in possession of the gun to hold cold metal to the intruder’s neck— he’s not quick. 

 

He’s frozen. 

 

“For _fuck’s_ sake—“ 

 

“Come here often, sweet stuff?” 

 

Those feline features: cheshire curl of lips and eyes that were meant for the dark, make his hand twitch and it’s definitely a mistake. 

 

Kuroo Testurou’s got a forehead of steel, and it collides with Akaashi’s but just barely misses his nose. His chance of disarming the other is lost with the swift motion.

 

Disoriented, Akaashi can’t react quickly enough when the taller of the two grasps a handful of raven curls, tugging firmly enough to elicit a choked moan. 

 

“Hiding out at our love nest? Such a romantic, Kaashi.” It’s purred through that aggravating smirk and it’s all instinct when Akaashi turns his head to bite down. hard. on the forearm grazing his cheek. 

 

When Kuroo retracts, more amused than disturbed, Akaashi takes the chance to move to the offensive again. 

 

He stabs his weapon of choice into the hand with the gun, and even though Kuroo’s still all composure and sick thrill, his hand relieves its grip and Akaashi kicks the firearm down the hallway.

 

“You’re a cockroach,” the smaller offers as Kuroo pushes him against the wall with a strong shoulder. 

 

“Don’t be like that. I missed you, you know.” 

 

His arms are pinned to him and goddammit Kuroo’s brick, honestly— all tall and taunt and solid as hell. 

 

Akaashi swings his left leg, aiming for the other’s windpipe but can feel a tight grip on his calf before that can happen. 

 

And Kuroo squeezes— long fingers bruising, crushing, threatening to _break_. 

 

But Akaashi pushes forward, the back of his bare thigh to Kuroo’s chest and with a grunt of effort, they’re both stumbling onto hardwood. 

 

“Who sent you?” Akaashi asks, weight balancing on Kuroo’s middle as he fists his suit collar. 

 

“Don’t remember,” he hums in response and it almost sounds genuine. “It’s a little distracting when you’re kicking my ass in just my old shirt, you know.” 

 

That earns an abrupt shake, causing the back of his head to make dizzying contact with the floor. 

 

“You’re gonna make me kill you?” 

 

“It’s kinda hot.” 

 

“You’re a pig.” 

 

“I just wanted to see you.” 

 

It’s so gentle and so sweet, all melting milk chocolate and sea mist. 

 

_I just wanted you._

 

Akaashi snaps. 

 

Loosens his grip and delivers a hard slap to Kuroo’s cheek. 

 

There’s a blaze in those golden eyes now. 

 

A hand— hot with blood and stiff with unregistered pain— is at the side of Akaashi’s neck in no time, pushing his face to the floor and his weight is no longer holding down the danger below him. 

 

Kuroo doesn’t pay any mind to the struggle Akaashi puts up as he pins his wrists down with his free hand (no doubt throbbing from the animalistic reflex Akaashi had performed earlier). 

 

“Why are you so angry at me?” 

 

“Fuck you!” is all Akaashi responds with, his movements becoming erratic and he doesn’t want Kuroo to be right but he is because he is angry. He’s pissed off and he wants nothing more than for Kuroo to just drop dead.

 

For there to be acid at the back of his throat. For him to not love everything he shouldn’t.

 

“You threw me away Akaashi, not the other way around.” And there’s more pressure on Akaashi’s neck as he wills himself to not cry. Not here. Not now. 

 

He manages to hook a leg around Kuroo’s neck— threatening enough to stave him off and Akaashi’s on his feet, scrambling for the gun at the end of the hall. 

 

Kuroo, never the one to be unhinged, is too quick to grab at Akaashi’s ankle. 

 

Akaashi feels his teeth rattle when his chin hits the ground, but the gun is so close and before Kuroo can pull him back completely he feels his fingertips graze the handle. 

 

One last push. 

 

Something pulls, cracks, in the leg Kuroo’s holding back but his free leg manages to launch him forward enough to get a decent grip on the pistol. 

 

Pulling it to his chest, he heaves something akin to a sigh before turning on his back, aiming for the dip in Kuroo’s nose. 

 

His finger is pulling the trigger before he can realize he’s mouthing three stupid words. 

 

“You really thought it was loaded?” 

 

It wasn’t fucking loaded. 

 

Akaashi lets out a noise so frustrated, so desperate, Kuroo almost looks sorry. 

 

“You were gonna kill me, Akaashi? Do you hate me that much?” Kuroo pulls Akaashi closer— gentleness forgotten and replaced with violent grips and whiplash tugs. 

 

“You absolute fucking pig, you pain in the ass, you stupid fucking—“ Akaashi’s rattling off in a shaking rage, wiggling as Kuroo shoves his face to the floor and pins his wrists to the small of his back. 

 

The shirt— Kuroo’s shirt— is riding up and Akaashi feels so exposed, full of hot steam and memories of skin melting against skin. 

 

“Why’d you run away?” 

 

Akaashi doesn’t answer, only tires himself out further with all his struggling. 

 

“What the hell are you so scared of?”

 

How long had it been since the nuclear fallout that untangled their limbs and breaths? 

 

_I can’t do this anymore._

_This?_

_All of it._

 

A day? A month? A year? A century? 

 

“Why do you hate yourself so much?” 

 

He shouldn’t like it. The scar (whether or not it heals nicely) should disgust him. 

 

The way Kuroo looks covered in crimson, kisses with chapped iron lips, blood rusted love forged from ugly palms. 

 

It should disgust him.

 

“Can’t you at least let me love you enough?”

 

The way failing flesh feels under his fingertips, skin pressed against satin and gunmetal, filthy motel rooms. 

 

It should disgust him. 

 

“I’m disgusting, Tetsurou.” He stutters, feels honey pour through the hole in his throat. 

 

Kuroo should be disgusted _by_ him. 

 

“Keiji.” 

 

He turns his head to meet the other’s mouth, feels himself crack open with a sob. 

 

Akaashi wonders if Kuroo’s a priest or the devil himself, with the ability to purge the sludge that’s been at the pit of his own stomach since he walked away. 

 

“It’s okay, Keiji,” is mumbled into his quivering lips and Akashi feels himself whimper. 

 

He can feel the other’s grip loosen in his hair, letting his fingers travel down the span of his neck, pressing ever so slightly between his shoulder blades and settles to thumb at his waist.

 

“I’m sorry. For everything. I-” But Kuroo shushes him, patient as he peppers kisses over strained shoulders.

 

“God, I just…. I thought I couldn’t breathe without you. I can’t let you go. I took the job— hoping, praying you’d be here. It would give me hope.” 

 

There’s no hesitation when Akaashi presses their lips together once more, sincere and hard.

 

Kuroo’s mouth is so wet, and it slots together so perfectly against his and the blood spilling over his spine makes him gasp for air and presses back against the heat behind him.

 

It’s been so long.

 

For both of them. He can tell by the way Kuroo’s legs sway behind his, and how his lips flutter experimentally against Akaashi’s flushed cheek, jaw, ear, temple.

 

“C’mon, Tetsu.” 

 

“Wanna savor this.” 

 

“You’re bleeding.” 

 

“Worth it.”

 

Akaashi spots the straight razor on the floor beside them, dislodged in the midst of their collision, and remembers the times he’s hazily walked in on Kuroo shaving with it. 

 

_Isn’t that dangerous?_

_That’s funny, baby._

 

They’re both fully aware that the bedroom is only a few feet away, but steps feel like miles and Akaashi can’t imagine letting Kuroo’s hands drift away from his skin. 

 

And it’s been so long. 

 

The split had been just as messy as their work and they had both unapologetically stained each other with buckets of the stuff, leaving them both unappetizing to a world they, in turn, had no appetite for. 

 

Akaashi can’t blame Kuroo for taking the hit on him. It was the only way Akaashi would ever see him again. 

 

He wasn’t going to kill Akaashi. That had become apparent. 

 

Either way, it’s surreal (dadaist, nihilist, etc.) to be stabbing your former lover with a straight razor one minute and having them fuck your brains out of your dick the next. 

 

Kuroo’s not gentle and Akaashi doesn’t want him to be. 

 

“Harder, Tetsu, please,” he hears himself say through some drool as Kuroo continues to pound into him from behind. 

 

It feels like he’s being split open and hung to dry but god, is it good. 

 

And Kuroo refuses to let up, refuses to take it easy and the filth that’s whispered against Akaashi’s skin leaves him panting and wet. 

 

“Such a good boy, taking my cock so well. So pretty when you’re wrecked.” 

 

It’s followed by Kuroo sucking another hickey into Akaashi’s bare back, now sporting a garden of bright purple and angry red blossoms. 

 

He keens at the marking, babbling about how thick Kuroo is and how badly he’s wanted it. 

 

It’s only when Kuroo flips him over and pumps at his neglected erection that Akaashi is positive about dying— about crumpling into a mess of pleasure and spit and desperation. 

 

The worst part is that Kuroo knows exactly how to dance his hand over his body to make him an incomprehensible mess. He tweaks at Akashi’s nipples before taking them into his mouth, scratches fingertips over his throat, and squeezes at the leaking hardness between his legs for _justenoughnotenough_ relief, all the while slamming into him with a merciless snapping of hips. 

 

The sounds that fill the cabin are absolutely pornographic. Wet heat moving between slapping skin and a hiccup of Kuroo’s name harmonizes with breathless praise. 

 

“Wanna come, baby? Want me to let you come?”

 

“God, please,” Akaashi half sobs and half prays and all Kuroo does is laugh before timing it just right so they’re both spilling over each other. 

 

Akaashi chants Kuroo’s name like it’s a sacred text and Kuroo’s sure he’s reached nirvana. 

 

They’re both on the floor, catching their breaths and trying not to float away. 

 

It’s Kuroo who speaks first, unsurprisingly. 

 

“So we’re good?” 

 

Good— as in, are you going to try to lodge a bullet in my brain anytime soon? Are you going to disappear to a remote island across the world? 

 

Are we good?

 

“Better than that.” 

 

_I love you._

 

“… I love you.” 

 

_I love you._

 

“I love you, too.” 

 

They really needed to fix Kuroo’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I dig the concept of kuroaka being badass spies/hitmen 
> 
> also i listened to paparazzi and judas by lady gaga to write this just saying


End file.
